Who You Are
by LexLuthor13
Summary: During Infinite Crisis 7 and its imediate aftermath: the mental musings of Deathstroke and Batman at the Battle of Metropolis...plus, how did Harvey Dent end up where he did when Batman returned one year later? Find out inside.


**Metropolis.**

**Oracle. **

**Previously:**

_I think we expected Bizarro or Sinestro to make the first move. But they had Dr. Psycho in the lead. Still, it has to be said, our guys stood firm._

_Perhaps there were already worse threats in the Society. But one look at that creature and every one of us saw what he'd done in the past—a shattered Justice League, and a coffin with a red cape on it._

_They were terrified. But they didn't break ranks. They were horrified but they stood firm. And the shining truth in that moment—is that never as the line between hero and villain so inescapably clear…

* * *

_

**Now. **

**Deathstroke:**

The truth becomes inescapably clear.

The Society will take this Earth, by the means any army through history has. Brute force. Oh yes. And it'll be a triumphant coup. A well-deserved coup.

Because, let's be honest here, they've brought this on themselves. Batman creates a satellite and tosses it into the sky to watch over all of us…Wonder Woman murders a well-known businessman—however much of a jerk he was…and Superman, the worst of 'em, just stands around like a three-year-old.

If it weren't so damn depressing, I'd laugh.

World's Greatest Heroes with protégés of their own, and the so-called Trinity can't even own up to their mistakes.

This is my train of thought, as I'm fighting alongside people—villains—I don't know. Honestly don't even care for. They're really just tools. For the Society. For a better world. And the fact that they seem to be getting their asses kicked is…well, overlookable.

Because they're of a lesser breed than myself or even Batman. People like he and I, we operate on a faster wavelength, and we're quite the pillars of our respective communities. They love him, and the villain crowd…well, who the hell cares what they think about me? I could kill them all and they wouldn't know it.

But that's another day. And that's another mindset. A mindset I had when I was young and stupid and full of piss and vinegar. Now? Not so much on the piss and vinegar.

Just boiling blood.

Anger.

How did things come to this? Why am I blocking blows from Kate Spencer and her second-hand heroics in the streets of Metropolis?

Metropolis, of all places.

Five thousand of the world's worst are arm-wrestling it back to 1066. City of Tomorrow indeed.

"This is new," Spencer says through greedy huffs of air. "Deathstroke, right?"

"Right." I block her overhead strike and kick the side her knee. She falls to the remaining one but turns it into a tuck-and-roll, rolling out of sword range and uncurling in a low crouch. One of her arms ignites in a brilliant blue. That's also new. "Manhunter, is it?"

"Right." She tries a leg sweep. Misses. I backflip and land a foot or two away. "So tell me, which Manhunter are you? Sixty-ninth?"

"Cute," she says. Stands for a second to get leverage and lunges at me with that pilot-light fist ablaze

It's really not even a contest. I know she's well-trained—self-trained, and that's the best kind—and she knows who the hell I am. Lots of people do, sure, but this one? She seems to respect it.

So we keep up the game of cat and mouse for a few more minutes at least.

I let her sucker punch me with the pilot-light fist. When she realizes, not even a second after striking, that my armor's flame-retardant, she does a backflip of her own. One foot catches me in the chin. I stumble backward a few steps and when I come to—

She's already a meter away, focusing most of her attention on Zsasz.

Can't say I blame her though. A free-for-all like this, you hit who you can. Take nothing back.

And what a free-for-all it is. Bolt's behind Spencer, looking very pissed and very ready to strike. Just next to her, Aquaman's flexing his muscles and getting ready to tackle Shrapnel. Even through the mask I can tell Murmur's got designs on Katana. And Bizarro's about to dogpile Black Adam.

Adam. Poor dumb bastard.

I decide to regain my bearings and my sense of geography. Keep the sword in one hand and get the shotgun in the other. I start for the Daily Planet building; maybe…maybe there'll be some quality booty in there. After all…Wayne owns the place.

To the right of me, Bane cracks someone else's back. From the roof of the Superior Courthouse, Prometheus zaps someone through the chest—it's all very Armageddon; I don't particularly care to learn names, especially of people who don't have long to meet the Man Upstairs.

A few feet ahead of me, Shining Knight makes sure Nigma's face meets a delightful-looking mace. Hourman and Killer Croc are having a staring contest—

"Yeah, that'll scare him, Rick."

—and Black Adam rips off Amazo's head.

Business as usual.

When down the street there arises such a clatter. I turn around to see what's the matter.

"Oh."

One…two. No shit. Two Supermen, and they're sending Doomsday a hell of a Valentine's card.

The one from Golden Pond, the one with grey temples, grabs one of Doomsday's fists, says, "I don't think so monster," and headbutts him. A Superman I actually remember joins Henry Fonda and the two of them land a mean right hook across Doomsday's jaw—

Leaving him a pile of rocky bones and cement-skin on the ground.

"Damn."

The Supermen take to the sky, trailed by the big-name heroes. And clear a path through the battle.

The Supermen go for Bizarro. Hal Jordan goes for Sinestro.

And—can it be?

Oh yes it is.

The Bat-people. They're flocking this way.

And they do a damn good job of cornering me from the get-go. Nightwing gets the right, Drake in front of me. And Bruce off to the left, with razor Batarangs firmly entrenched in one hand.

They stop together—almost on cue, like some damn hive mind.

Under my mask, I smile.

"I've been waiting for a rematch, Bats. Now it seems my wish comes true."

"It ends here, Slade."

"Now long can we go on saying that?" I cock my head.

Stupid. Letting down my guard allows the Boy Wonder to pivot in place and kick in square in the knee.

* * *

**Now.**

**Batman:**

We work as a team. As we haven't worked in…in a very long time.

Robin uses forward momentum to send Slade to one knee while I disarm him. I wrestle the sword out of one arm and toss it away.

"Keep him contained," I say. The key to fighting Deathstroke—what's always been the key—is to disarm him. It's difficult, as he carries so many weapons. Difficult but manageable.

Nightwing judo chops the machine gun out of Slade's remaining hand and uses another open palm to strike his solar plexus. Robin lands two roundhouses on his temples and knocks him backward with an elbow to the chin.

Our three attacks take less than two seconds to execute. Two seconds…and Deathstroke the Terminator is already on his knees.

The material of his mask shifts slightly. He's grimacing. Odd. Slade Wilson always internalized his anger. Always kept his emotions under his skin. That's part of the reason why his wife left him. Why Joey and Grant died. Why Rose isn't turning out much better.

Keeping emotions where all they can do is boil over….that's dangerous.

I make a note of it.

And I sucker punch him again.

Through gasps of air and Nightwing restraining him, Deathstroke croaks out a response.

"Y'know," he says and coughs. A small circle on his mouth darkens. He's just coughed up blood. "I was almost worried. All those other earths blowing up in the sky….worried we'd never meet again, Bruce."

"I wasn't trying last time. I'll try not to make that mistake again."

"Fair enough."

Out of nowhere, Slade slashes a bowie knife at Nightwing's shoulder, cutting through the suit and opening a stream of blood at the curvature of the joint. He kicks Nightwing away and elbows me in the groin and gets to his feet. He wraps a free hand around a hand grenade at his waist. Robin catches it and lets a Batarang fly.

Second nature.

The razor edge strikes true, exactly in the center of Slade's bionic right eye. His head snaps to one side and he falls backward like he's just been shot by a high-powered rifle and falls to the ground, clutching his eye and groaning mournfully.

I stand and look at Nightwing. He's fine. Bleeding, but fine.

And Deathstroke is still writhing on the ground.

"How does it feel?" I ask, letting the cape flow in the wind, carried on the currents of a battle occurring all around us. In the distance I hear a small boom. An instant later I smell something burning. Look out to one side and see Zauriel's smoking shape falling to the earth. Above the angel, the afternoon sky is dark. Red. Tainted with the spilled blood of hundreds. "How does it feel to be declawed?"

And after all, that's the truth. Without his weapons and his bionic eye, Deathstroke's little more than an invalid. And after everything he's caused…

Nightwing steps in front of me and straddles Deathstroke. Instantly, he starts pummeling Deathstroke and obscenities.

"Dick." I say his name without reproach. Without hate. With concern. Alfred would say 'fatherly'.

"What?" he doesn't even look at me. His tone is clear. He's…desperate.

"Let it go."

"What?" He turns to me. His face spews hate. Bloodied and dirtied from the battle. "You know what he did to Blüdhaven! You're going to let him walk away from that!"

"I'm going to let the courts take care of him."

"Come on!" Dick yells. "Six million people dead, Bruce. You know the courts can't deal with people like him!"

"Neither of us knows that."

Dick looks back to Deathstroke and presses his nightstick against his throat. Slade starts gagging and choking a second later. Nightwing grits his teeth.

"I should let you fry," he rasps.

To my right, Tim moves to stop Dick. I hold an arm out and stop him.

Maybe…it's time to let bygones be bygones. To let decisions be made.

"Bruce?" Tim whispers to me.

"Just wait, Tim."

Nightwing's shoulder slump for a moment and Deathstroke's choking ceases. Nightwing stands and slides the nightstick back into the forearm compartment. Dusts himself off and walks away.

"But not today."

Deathstroke props himself up on one elbow and laughs weakly.

"Idiots. That's why they turned against you, Bruce. You're just an ordinary man in a cape; that's why you can't fight me and that's why you can't win your little war."

My foot flies through the air and connects squarely with Deathstroke's head. He falls to the sidewalk with a dull thud. I crouch and grab his head again. Lift it and slam it back down.

"It's over Deathstroke."

And it is.

No more secrets. No more lies.

Tim fits cuffs on Deathstroke and leaves him on the sidewalk.

"Do you realize what you've done?" the voice thunders from above us. Luthor—the gold one—standing on a red disc. His hands are glowing with purple energy and his face is that of a true Luthor: determination incarnate. "You've damned this earth."

He raises one hand—

"You've ruined everything."

—and fires a blast of energy. It happens so fast that I don't have time to react when Nightwing jumps in the path. He screams and falls to the ground when Luthor's power runs out.

Form my peripheral vision, I see Luthor stammering and shaking at his loss:

"My power…I needed more power…"

Tim crouches over Nightwing. Smoke from his chest curls into ther air. And in my mind, something snaps.

"No one else dies! Not because of you!"

The battle outside spills over: the General makes a crater out of our immediate area and sends all of us flying. In the haze and confusion, I'm just cognizant to hear Robin crying out my name.

In the shadows and the haze of the fallen Bridwell building, streams of light find their way through to the rubble and bodies. I crawl out from under a broken slab of concrete. And I hear Luthor's voice again.

"We're not so different, Bruce. Your parents were murdered. You work to make the streets they were killed in safe. My earth was murdered. I work to make the universe it was killed in safe."

It's not a fair comparison. You kill.

"You think too small. You save streetcorner to streetcorner. You work too hard for too little."

Hmmm.

"But you finally decided to take a shortcut with Brother Eye."

I crest a pile of rubble and see him, sitting upright, blood streaming from his nose. And it occurs to me that he's powerless now. He's mortal now. Like a true Luthor, he's wasted his power on a scheme he couldn't contain.

"You need to learn to take shortcuts to justice."

Somewhere off to my side, I hear sobbing. Tim. And he has a place to. After what he's seen and done in just one day. In just one hour.

And I will not be lectured—won't be talked down to—by a Luthor.

So I give him a haymaker for good measure. Because he doesn't know what I'm going through. There are maybe three people on the planet that do, and two of them aren't even in Metropolis.

From the corner of my eye, I see Deathstroke lying unconscious next to fragments of a Botticelli. And I pick up the handgun lying by his head. He won't be needing it. God willing…I may not.

"I know what Superman is going through," I say through clenched teeth.

Luthor sees me bring the gun up to eye level and holds his hands out in futile protest. It is…the first time I've ever seen a Luthor with tears of fear in his eyes.

"He doesn't deserve that. Superboy didn't deserve that."

I angle the gun at Luthor's forehead. My arms shake ever so slightly. Years' worth of rage course through my veins and make my thumb slide over the hammer. What was this Luthor responsible for? Hal Jordan's insanity? Superman's death somehow? Jean Loring, Ronnie Raymond, maybe even Ra's al Ghul?

Jason…

My jaw locks and the shakes stop.

"What do you deserve?"

We lock eyes for a moment.

On the grave of my slain parents, I made a vow to rid Gotham City of the evil that took their lives. I swore to use any means necessary to do that, except the one…sacrosanct solution. I didn't want to avenge them by becoming someone like the man who killed them

But…perhaps this is the only chance I have. After everything that's happened. Max Lord and Ted. Allen and Corrigan. Diana and Max Lord. Tommy Elliot. Harvey Dent. Stephanie. Sasha. Jason. The Joker.

I cock the gun. Another tear streams down Luthor's face.

"Bruce."

I look away but only for a moment. Diana stands in one of the streams of light; eerily similar to the way she appeared on the Moon…how long ago? A week? Two?

The golden lasso at her waist shines brilliantly. She pulls it from its sheath and I turn back to Luthor, baring my teeth.

And I hear a clanging a meter away; the sound of Diana's sword breaking. Her voice follows: "It's not worth it."

I hold the gun a moment longer.

It's a chance…to make things right.

But it's not the only chance. In spite of everything, what separates Us from Them are rules, and no matter what earth he calls home, a Luthor has the same disrespect for them. An animal. And the mantle of Batman is more than taking the high road. More than just quick fixes, because quick fixes don't work.

It's not what you do. It's who you are.

The mantle of Batman is an honor.

"I know. Dammit."

I toss the gun away. Luthor stands and clenches one fist.

"This doesn't mean anything." He says hatefully. "It doesn't mean you're any better, Wonder Woman—"

Above us, the ceiling creaks and collapses. The stress of battle has taken its toll, even on the architecture. Diana and I dive out of the path of damage, toward Nightwing and Robin. And we don't even wait for Luthor as the ceiling crashes behind us.

When the dust clears, she helps me up.

"Did he—?"

"I don't know," Diana says.

* * *

**Later.**

**Gotham City's Norvick Way Suites.**

"Harvey."

"Batman."

Years ago, Harvey Dent was disfigured by Salvatore Maroni. It was the now-dead mobster's last revenge on "Apollo" Dent, the rogue district attorney who had scruples—a rarity in Gotham—and put away some of the city's most influential and richest "business associates."

With that disfigurement, the last shreds of Harvey's sanity dissolved, childhood traumas courtesy of an abusive father came to the surface. He ceased to be Harvey Dent and became Two-Face, a villain with a gimmick that turned into an obsession. When that happened, the good man who was Harvey Dent was destroyed. It was only with Thomas Elliot's return to my life that Harvey Dent truly returned. And saved my life. I seek to return the favor.

"It's been a long time."

"Too long."

He smiles and turns to me. "I get the sense you're not one for small-talk anymore. But while we're on the subject…"

"What is it?"

"I heard about what those villains did in Metropolis. Dr. Psycho makes civilians kill civilians, Bane's back in the saddle. Even heard the Joker showed his ugly face again."

"Hearsay."

"Sure it is," Harvey says and pours himself a drink. He holds the bottle out to me. "I'd offer, but you'd refuse."

"Then you know me too well."

"Sure. One of the few that does."

"Then you know why I'm here."

"I've got an idea or two," he says, cocking his head. "You want something of me."

"Yes. I'm taking…an extended leave. The city needs someone to watch over it, and everyone's…"

"Dead. Or powerless."

"Yes," I say heavily. "Listen...whatever disagreements we've had...I'm willing to clear the ledger between us. I'm making this decision in light of recent events, and I know you're the only one who can be as forthright as I am, without putting on a mask of your own. Do you understand what I'm asking?"

"Oh sure." Harvey smiles. "You're asking me to take over, is that it? Despite both of us knowing that the most training I know is drunken boxing. Despite the fact that without my uglier half I'm nowhere near as scary to the punks and rapists as I once was. And you're asking this of me...for the entire time you're gone?"

"Yes. Until I return."

"And what then?"

"You can go back to doing whatever it is you do, and I'll do the same. Do we have a deal?"

Harvey laughs, a deep and thoroughly amused laugh. "Bats, you know I can't say no to you. You've got yourself a guardian."

* * *

**Later.**

**The gravesite of Thomas and Martha Wayne.**

**Bruce Wayne:**

"I made a mistake. And it cost everyone more than I knew. I thought…it was the only way to make good on my promise. I swore to rid this city o the evil that took your lives. I know I've said this before—many times before—but today I almost became that evil. And I don't want to come close to feeling that. Not ever again.

So I'm leaving. I need to reevaluate some things. I know…I don't see myself as any kind of father figure, but I'm taking Dick and Tim with me. I'm going to find what it means to be Batman again. I'll return soon enough. I'll be stronger—we all will.

And your city will be in good hands."

* * *

**_The End..._**


End file.
